


know that i would gladly be (the icarus to your certainty)

by Poe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Comic Artist Steve Rogers, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Freewill, Generalised Anxiety Disorder, Graphic Designer Bucky Barnes, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death (off screen and a long time ago), Mythology Retold, News Media, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Texting, humans of new york
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 07:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21472390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe
Summary: "The legend of King Midas goes thus: once upon a time, there was a very lonely king. He wished and he wished and he wished for something to love, something dear, perhaps the most valuable thing in the world. And then, one day, his wish was granted, because isn’t that the way things work in stories of old? And yet, he felt no different. Gold, it had been whispered, I promise you gold. But there was no gold. The world didn’t shimmer any brighter, didn’t offer him riches."Or: Steve Rogers doesn't believe in soulmates. Bucky Barnes doesn't believe in himself. But they might believe in each other.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 44
Kudos: 231





	know that i would gladly be (the icarus to your certainty)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daslebensmittel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daslebensmittel/gifts).

_The legend of King Midas goes thus: once upon a time, there was a very lonely king. He wished and he wished and he wished for something to love, something dear, perhaps the most valuable thing in the world. And then, one day, his wish was granted, because isn’t that the way things work in stories of old? And yet, he felt no different. Gold, it had been whispered, I promise you gold. But there was no gold. The world didn’t shimmer any brighter, didn’t offer him riches. _

_And then – one day, he was walking through the orchards, admiring the reddening glow of the fall apples, when he saw a woman, her lips the same shade as those apples. She startled, and tripped over the basket of apples at her feet. Enchanted, he reached to help her up, and well, you know the rest, how it goes._

_Their hands touched, and when they parted, there was that smudge of gold on both of their palms, and try as they might to remove it, it was a part of them, still malleable as any other part of them, but shining and bright, an exact mirror of each other’s hands, that first moment, that first touch._

_They were married before the first snow fell. And from that day on, people found that when they touched their person, their soulmate, for the first time, that golden mark would remain, a priceless reminder, something irremovable, something irrevocable, and something sacred. Rare and hard to come by, and kept close and safe once found. _

_It does not happen to everyone, and indeed, no matter how hard they try, scientists can’t explain it. The soulmark transcends gender, race or creed, and is never wrong. It is as much a part of our being as the air we breathe or the water we drink. And we have a very lonely king to thank for it._

*

**The Anti-Capitalism of Soulmarks, or, Are Millennials Killing the Gold Industry?**

_Maybe you’ve read the recent spate of articles about actors refusing to cover their soulmarks for roles, or refusing to wear fake ones. Well, now jewellery stores across the country are noting marked declines in the sales of gold jewellery, stating that millennials are killing a once vibrant industry._

_Asked to comment, one jeweller said: “It’s all well and good to believe that soulmarks are something precious, and we agree. But to refuse to wear gold jewellery as a statement attesting to that is just flawed logic. Not everyone will find their soulmate, why shouldn’t they be allowed to wear the jewellery of their choice? This reeks of political correctness gone mad.”_

_Truly, soulmarks are a difficult thing to capitalise on without backlash. A recent attempt by Hallmark to celebrate Soulmate Day failed abysmally, and an online petition calling for a boycott against the chain reached into the hundreds of thousands. _

_In these uncertain times, it seems more than ever that soulmarks are still as important to people as ever, if not more so. In such a turbulent world, perhaps we can only rely on the fate imprinted on our skin._

*

“What have you got to be afraid of?” Natasha asked, running her fingers through Bucky’s hair, his head resting in her lap.

“Literally everything, I have generalised anxiety disorder. There is nothing I can’t be afraid of,” he replied, and she huffed out a quiet laugh.

“Try harder, Barnes,” she said, pulling gently at a knot she’d found.

“Gee whiz, forget the therapists, I’ll just try harder. Thanks Nat, I’m cured,” he said, sarcasm softened by the familiarity of the argument.

“I just worry,” Natasha sighed, beginning to braid his hair into small nonsense strands. He felt he might actually start purring. He loved having his hair played with. “I worry that you’re missing out on so much. There’s more out there than these four walls.”

“I have the internet,” he pouted.

Her silence was pointed.

“I know,” he said, “I know, you’re right. But it’s fucking hard. Everything is so much – louder out there. Bigger. Scarier. And I know it’s the same for everyone, but…” he trailed off.

“It’s not the same for everyone, Barnes. And that’s okay. Anxiety is a dick, but you’re not going to beat it by wallowing.”

“Might do, maybe I haven’t wallowed hard enough yet,” Bucky countered.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you? It’s tragic.”

“Netflix called just the other day asking about me doing a special for them, so bleh on you,” Bucky argued, then yelped as Natasha pushed him off the sofa and onto the floor.

He looked up at her, all red hair and green eyes, looking for all the world the sort of girl he should want to marry, but her soulmark said differently, a messy smear of gold that licked up from the top of her waistband and into her navel, before making its way upwards a tad further. And wasn’t that a story for another day?

Clint was a lucky man indeed.

“I can see right up your nose,” he said, and she kicked him.

“Get up loser,” she said, offering him her hand, and he pulled himself upright, “we’re going to the library.”

“Wow, you know how to show a guy a good time,” he complained, but obediently shucked on a coat and toed into his shoes. “How dumb does my hair look right now?”

“Artfully dishevelled,” Natasha looked him over. She pulled on her gloves. Brooklyn got fucking cold in the winter.

He looked around for his own. They appeared to have vanished entirely. Which, rude, for inanimate objects. His hands were going to be all sore and chapped. Life was entirely too unfair. He was a simple, bisexual man with excellent hair (questionably styled), an anxiety disorder you could write a thesis about, and magnificent thighs.

So, a mixed bag.

He was thinking of getting a cat though. He wasn’t sure which direction that would sway things. Single guy, late twenties, enough emotional baggage that he’d have to pay extra to get it onto an aeroplane… yeah, a cat would not add anything positive to that picture.

On the other hand, companionship. Which wasn’t Nat and her weirdly pointy elbows.

He’d consider it.

She grabbed his hand, the leather of her glove already warm against his palm.

“Two blocks, half an hour in there, then we’ll come home. And then we’ll order pizza. Okay?” She promised.

He nodded.

“Can Clint come over?” He pulled his best puppy dog expression. She was immune, but she was good with the pity at times.

“Your crush on my soulmate is somewhat worrying,” she shrugged, “but sure.”

“Soulmate schmolmate,” Bucky muttered. “He got lucky.”

“Damn right he did,” Natasha agreed, “now, let’s go.”

She opened the door and ushered him out. His heart rate picked up and he swallowed hard, but as she followed him out, pulling the door shut, she looped her arm into his and the weight of it was calming, a little. His legs still felt like they were going to collapse on themselves though.

“I hate this,” he said, mostly to himself.

“I know, but the only way out is through.”

“What if I glitch through the floor?” He tried for a laugh.

She obliged gently.

“Then we reconsider things. But for now, you’re very much bound by the rules of this mortal plane, so.”

“That’s dumb,” he grumbled, and let her pull him towards the stairs, away from the safety of his apartment.

*

“Samothy,” Steve said exaggeratedly, drawing out the syllables. Sam looked at him, innocent, as Steve waved his phone, Tinder profile exposed, at him. “Have you by any chance been messing with my Tinder profile again?”

Sam raised a hand to his chest and put on an expression of mock indignation.

“I would never,” he gasped theatrically.

“Okay, then, so,” and Steve cleared his throat before reading in a clipped voice, “_Steve Rogers is a tiny ball of righteous fury, who doesn’t believe in soulmates_. That wasn’t you?”

“Ehh,” Sam waved his hand, “doesn’t sound like me.”

“So I describe myself in third person now, do I? That’s a thing I do. And it’s definitely a thing I would do on a dating app.”

“Makes you stand out,” Sam pointed out.

“I think the whole not believing in soulmates thing makes me stand out, the messages I have received have been… not great.” Steve’s shoulders slumped a little.

“Oh Steve,” Sam sighed, and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Steve said in a voice that wasn’t entirely convincing. “It’s just, you know how I feel about soulmates. I don’t need to advertise it. I definitely don’t need to get shit for it.”

“If they’re giving you shit for something you believe, then they’re not worth your time anyway,” Sam said gently.

“It’s just – I just wish more people saw it like I do. Like, not to wear a groove in the record, but doesn’t anyone care about freewill anymore?”

It was a familiar dance, and Sam and Steve both knew it well.

“I understand that you feel that way, even if I can’t relate personally,” Sam said diplomatically.

“And what about people who never get soulmarks? What, are they just not good enough? It feels like some kind of strange cosmic classism, it’s hardly romantic.”

“Is this Steve-Steve talking, or Depressed Steve talking?” Sam asked, sitting down and patting the seat cushion beside him. Steve slumped down.

“I don’t know. But even if it’s the depression, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

Sam wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulled him in tight.

“I know, and I know that depression doesn’t invalidate your feelings. I respect that you feel this way. And it doesn’t make sense, I agree. But, you have to admit, for the people it works for, it really works.”

Muffled against Sam’s sweater, Steve let out a small sigh.

“Would you have chosen Riley, if you hadn’t been soulmates?” Steve asked.

“He can’t dance, he definitely can’t sing, he’s a walking disaster zone, he has no ass, and his haircut is bordering on the mullet, but yeah. In a thousand lifetimes. He’s kind. He keeps me grounded when my head’s too far in the clouds. He supports me. And it’s dumb, but the second I saw him, before I got the mark, I still knew it was him.”

“Is the love of my life insulting me through there?” Riley called from the other room, before sliding in, one sock on, one sock off. It wasn’t even his apartment. Steve raised an eyebrow.

“I was being cute too. Steve, back me up, I was being cute, right?” Sam pouted.

“There was some cuteness. It was gross. I hate everything,” Steve said. He didn’t mean it though. He loved Sam and Riley, loved their love, even if the gold fingerprint on Sam’s cheek and the matching mark on Riley’s thumb riled him slightly.

Sam pressed a kiss to the top of Steve’s head.

“One day you’ll find it,” he said, voice disappearing in the mess of Steve’s hair, “and you’ll get it. And if you don’t, well, that’s okay too.”

“You can be our honorary soulmate,” Riley said. “We’ll adopt you.”

Steve’s stomach rumbled, breaking the moment.

“Damn, Rogers, when did you last eat?” Sam asked, pulling away.

Steve considered for a moment, before answering.

“At some point,” he said, not entirely sure.

“Okay, men, we have a plan. We are getting Steve a veggie burger the size of his head from that weird café that smells of lavender. Because those are the life choices we’re making today,” Riley said, decision made.

“Why are you like this?” Sam sighed, goodnaturedly.

“Excellent genetics,” Riley replied, before hoisting Steve up off the sofa and towards the door.

“Coat, gloves, scarf and hat!” Sam called, following them.

“Yes, mom,” Steve rolled his eyes, but bundled himself up accordingly. It was fucking cold.

“Onwards to the old people smelling café!” Riley said excitedly, grabbing Sam’s hand.

“Some sentences should not be said,” Steve grumbled, but let himself be hustled out of the door.

“And yet he will say them,” Sam said.

“That’s your soulmate. You are stuck with him,” Steve pointed out, jokingly.

Sam smiled wide.

“I know. Isn’t that great?”

_Gross_.

*

“Why do I have to carry the books?” Bucky whined, balancing an alarming amount of scarily Russian literature in his arms, Mission: Library, complete.

“Because you are a manly man with muscles and I am but a small woman who is feeble and helpless,” Natasha replied, deliberately knocking her shoulder into him and making the pile wobble dangerously.

“So glad to be your friend right now,” Bucky said, trying to find an angle to walk at that didn’t threaten to drop the topmost leather-bound volume into a puddle. “This is – what’s that word terrible people use to describe sexism against men?”

“You are too pure for this world, Barnes,” Natasha smiled, “stay that way.”

Carrying the books, at least, distracted rather handily from the anxiety brewing up inside of him. Natasha knew what she was doing, and she did it well.

“I’m going to bite your nose,” Bucky said, and Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“Weird flex, but okay.”

“Seriously, when you least expect it. That will be your punishment. For the many books. That I am carrying. My arms hurt.”

“Poor baby Barnes,” Natasha said and stuck out her bottom lip. “How do you cope?”

“I hunt billionaires for sport,” Bucky said blithely.

“Somebody should,” Natasha replied. “Comrade.”

“Comrade,” Bucky nodded, and then skidded rather dramatically on an empty Starbucks cup, falling in slow motion like the world’s lamest demolition.

He managed to drop the books before hitting the ground, instead scuffing up his palms on the rough sidewalk. A pair of shoes appeared in his eyeline, dirtied up Converse with grey frayed laces. His eyes tracked upwards as the person bent down, and he met the eye of –

A literal angel.

Maybe he’d hit his head on the sidewalk and died and gone to heaven, because a blond haired boy in a bobble hat and a big puffy coat that looked like it was slowly digesting him was reaching out to help him up. His face was blotchy red from cold, and his lips chapped, but his eyes were bluest blue and his nose was so quirkily not straight that Bucky couldn’t help but stare.

“You okay?” The angel asked, and beside him another man started collecting the books, handing them over to someone else. Hopefully they weren’t opportunistic book thieves, though Natasha would surely sort them out if they were.

“My knees are wet,” Bucky said, and the angel smiled.

“Give me your hand,” he said and Bucky did, because when an angel asks for something, you do it. Within reason. Probably.

“Oh,” the angel let out a sad little huff, “you’re all scratched up.” He traced a feather light touch over Bucky’s bloodied palms, careful not to let the wool of his gloves catch the fresh wounds.

Bucky’s breath caught.

“I’m Steve,” the angel said, and he may have only been a couple of inches taller than Natasha, but he still managed to get Bucky back on his feet, hand still clasped in his.

“Bucky,” Bucky said, as that was his name, after all.

“Weird name,” the angel – Steve – said, and then blushed. “Sorry.”

“Nah, it is weird. Objectively, as well as subjectively. A name like Bucky? Proof we’re in the Bad Place.”

Natasha cleared her throat behind him.

“Oh, this is Natasha, those were her books, yeah,” Bucky nodded over his shoulder, his hand still in Steve’s.

“She has a lot of books,” Steve said, and smiled.

“I know. I am a humble pack mule to her.”

“You look good for a pack mule. I mean – nothing,” Steve said and blushed again. Bucky felt his own cheeks heating up.

“This is fucking painful,” Bucky overheard one of the men behind Steve say. Steve shot them a glare.

“Those are my friends and I hate them. Please ignore them.”

Bucky was ignoring most things, his world narrowing down to Steve and Steve’s eyes and Steve’s crooked nose and Steve’s red lips and Steve’s dumb hat and Steve, Steve, Steve.

“I would ask you to get coffee, but I just ate a burger that I’m pretty sure doubled my body weight, so I might vomit on you and that would not be the impression I want to make right now,” Steve said, and shuffled his feet a bit. “But I could give you my number?”

Bucky froze.

“Erm, yeah, I’m not so good on the phone. Dumb, really dumb reasons.”

Steve looked at him, and Bucky felt like he was utterly transparent, as if the bones of him were showing through.

“Is texting okay? No calls? Promise?” Steve asked, and Bucky felt the relief that only came with being understood.

“That’d be fine. Just – something about phone calls – it’s… bad?” Bucky managed, feeling increasingly like he was going to crawl out of his own skin. His breathing was picking up and his head was starting to swim.

Not now, not now, goddammit.

Fuck.

Steve let go of his hand and clumsily rummaged through his own pocket to find a small (tiny, really, adorable, Steve-sized) sketchpad and a pen. He scribbled his number down, and handed it to Bucky, who tried to take in the numbers, but they were dancing black and blurry in front of his eyes.

“Here, text me. If you want. And if you don’t, that’s okay too. But I’d like it very much if you did,” Steve said.

“Thanks,” Bucky said, feeling the anxiety reaching critical levels. They were only a block away from his apartment, but it felt like he might as well be on the moon for how far away that was. “I need to go.”

Steve nodded, and smiled, a little bashful.

“Take care, Bucky,” he said, and it sounded so sincere that Bucky’s anxiety took a momentary right turn to pause and allow him to breathe.

Bucky nodded. He had to get home, and he had to get home now. He felt Natasha loop her arm through his again, somehow balancing the pile of books on her hip, with a grace he could never achieve himself.

“I’m going to go – now. But it was nice. Meeting you,” he said, eyes darting wildly, but occasionally catching the calm blue of Steve’s.

“You too. Make sure to wash your hands when you get in, they look sore, don’t want to get infected.”

Natasha tugged at Bucky, and Bucky summoned up a smile for Steve, before nodding in the direction they would be headed.

“Gonna go now,” he said. Steve smiled. The two men behind Steve looked utterly bemused.

“Same. Gonna – go,” Steve agreed. They lingered a few seconds longer, before the moment snapped and Bucky’s anxiety hit again full blast. He stumbled backwards, and Natasha steadied him.

He allowed himself to be turned away from Steve, and to be lead, half blind, back to his apartment and onto his sofa, where he sat with his head between his knees until the nausea passed. Natasha sat in the comfy chair to his right, reading, but not really, one of her new books.

When his head stopped swimming and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t throw up, he looked at her. She raised an eyebrow.

“Nope,” he said. “Nope nope nope. I am not talking about this with you. I’m going to go lie down. Let yourself out.”

He got up, swayed on the spot for a second, before heading to his bedroom.

“You suck!” Natasha called after him.

His head hit the pillow, and the raw adrenaline that had kept him upright and anxious bled out of him, leaving an overwhelming feeling of pure exhaustion. He slipped into an uneasy unconsciousness, dreaming of earth bound angels with broken noses.

*

Waiting for a text from a cute boy is something akin to waiting for a reprieve from the guillotine. There’s the horrible anticipation of not receiving the text, then the thrill of actually getting it, and then the… _what on earth do I now _feeling of life readjusting itself around the new circumstances.

Not that Steve had received a text yet from Bucky, the strange but enthralling man he’d met and felt the strongest pull towards of anyone in his life. It was a little unsettling, how fixated his brain is on Bucky. From the way parts of Bucky’s hair were randomly braided, to the grazes on his hands, to the way he bit his lip and scrunched his nose when he talked, everything about him was bouncing around Steve’s head like a rogue tennis ball.

He checked his phone again, in case he’d missed it vibrating. Nope, still nothing.

He understood, it had only been a day, and Bucky had looked really anxious the whole time, and he sort of wished he’d asked for Bucky’s number instead of giving his own, but would that have been too forceful?

Urgh, he hated this. It was a lovely problem to have, as far as problems went, but it ate him up inside and made him question everything. Had Bucky only been being kind when he’d taken Steve’s number? He didn’t think so, but it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d never heard from someone. Had he misread the signals and Bucky was in fact straight as a ruler and more than a little freaked by Steve’s overtures? He hoped not, but you could never tell. Maybe Bucky had been dating the redheaded woman, though he didn’t think so. But maybe.

Steve’s brain was eating itself.

He knew from experience that no good could come from this, so he threw himself into action, because depression hates a moving target, and got to work on plotting out the graphic novel he was working on. It was exciting work, building something from the ground up and seeing it twist and change as it evolved and grew. He already had a publisher interested after working with them before, and he knew he had it within himself to create something beautiful, no matter what the dark thoughts whispered in the middle of the night. He tapped his pencil against the desk, once, twice, three times, three sharp raps, before scribbling down some new ideas, the haze of creativity overtaking him.

Finally, sitting back, he stretched and listened to the satisfying cracks of his back popping. He flexed his hand, sore from the work, but it was a good kind of hurt.

He couldn’t help it, he checked his phone.

**Unknown Number: ** _This is a text._

**Unknown Number: ** _This is Bucky by the way. Sorry, I just woke up. _

Steve checked the time. It had just gone two in the afternoon. He saved Bucky’s contact information before replying.

**Steve:** _ Good to hear from you! Are you doing okay? It was nice to meet you yesterday. _

Find some level of chill, Rogers, fuck.

He didn’t have to wait long for a response.

**Bucky: ** _I’m fine, just don’t get out much, so it takes a lot out of me. It’s draining. Anxiety. It was nice to meet you too. _

**Bucky: ** _How are you today? I forgot to ask. Sorry. I’m not very good at this._

Steve smiled. He didn’t suffer with anxiety, but he understood it enough to know how hard this must be for Bucky.

**Steve: ** _You’re doing fine, honestly. And I’m doing well, got some work in on the graphic novel I’m working on. It’s really starting to come together. How are your hands?_

**Bucky: ** _Thanks. You’re working on a graphic novel? That’s really cool. What’s it about? My hands are okay, a little sore, but I’ve had worse. Need to buy some new gloves. Mine have disappeared. _

**Steve: ** _Yeah, I mean, I’ve done work with graphic novels before, but this is the first one that’ll just be mine, you know? It’s a sort of superhero thing, but closer to Watchmen than DC stuff. I would offer to show you it, but it’s a big mess at the moment. Ask me again in six months! _

He paused for a moment, sent the message, before starting to tap out a new one.

**Steve: ** _You want to maybe meet up to buy gloves and get coffee? I won’t let you fall this time._

The little typing ellipsis appeared and disappeared several times. Steve chewed absently on his knuckle as he waited. He should have thought more carefully before messaging. He knew about Bucky’s anxiety. This might be a big ask for him.

**Bucky: ** _The thing about anxiety is_

**Bucky: ** _Imagine living in your own head but someone else lives there too and they hate you. They don’t want you to do the things you want to do. And you try really hard not to listen to them, but they keep coming up with arguments. _

**Bucky: ** _And you get really tired. So you just agree with them in the end. _

**Bucky: ** _I really want to get coffee with you. And to buy gloves. But my head doesn’t want me to. Does that make sense?_

Steve ghosted his fingers across the home button on his phone, thinking for a moment.

**Steve: ** _Home delivery then? Gloves and coffee direct to your door? Or is that too much still?_

The ellipsis appeared and disappeared several times again. Steve hoped he hadn’t pushed Bucky away, or worse, that he hadn’t forced Bucky to agree to something he didn’t want to do just to please Steve.

**Bucky: ** _I think_

**Bucky: ** _Yeah. Fuck it. Fuck anxiety. I’ll send my address over. _

Another text followed with Bucky’s address. Steve grinned.

**Steve: ** _Not worried I might be a serial killer or something?_

**Bucky: ** _Murdering me might actually be doing me a favour tbh. Might take my mind off things._

**Steve: ** _Morbid. I’ll bring my best chainsaw. _

**Bucky: ** _Can you put some sheets down then? I actually like my landlord and blood’s a bitch to get out of floorboards. They’re original, Steve. Think of the interior design._

**Steve: ** _You have weird priorities. I like that in a human._

**Bucky: ** _Yeahhh, that’s anxiety for you. If we’re going to be friends, you should probably be aware of that going in. _

**Steve: ** _Consider me aware. I’ll be over in about an hour. Is that okay?_

**Bucky: ** _I’ll text you if I change my mind about being murdered._

**Bucky: ** _(Sorry, but I can message you if I change my mind about you coming over, right?)_

**Steve: ** _Of course, I’ve got ants in my pants anyway, I need to get out of the house. Even if I don’t end up going anywhere. Though it would be pretty amazing to see you. Heading on out now. See you soon. _

Bucky didn’t reply, so Steve assumed everything was okay his end, and stretched again before standing, heading to the door and grabbing his assortment of winter outerwear. He hated how much his coat dwarfed him, but he couldn’t deny its warmth.

He couldn’t deny the warmth in his belly at the thought of seeing Bucky again, either. He still didn’t believe in soulmates, but Bucky? Bucky kinda made him want to.

He shook his head.

He wasn’t going to think like that. If anything happened, it happened on his terms. Not because of fate or any other bullshit like that.

It was tempting to believe that love was as easy as a caress of a hand on bare skin, but come on, really? No. He checked he had his wallet, and headed out, trying to put any romantic thoughts out of his head, trying to look forward to meeting a new friend, and nothing more than that.

*

Bucky piled his hair up on top of his head, twisted it, and pinned it into place, before scrunching his nose in front of the mirror and letting it fall down past his shoulders again. He’d successfully panicked about what he was going to wear, now his hair was baffling him too.

He had grabbed a hair tie, put it between his teeth, and started working on a quick and dirty fishtail braid, when his buzzer went. His heart immediately started beating in double time, and his anxiety started muttering louder, telling him to ignore the door until Steve went away.

But he didn’t want that. His anxiety might want that – hell, his anxiety would love that, for Bucky to isolate himself even further, but Bucky, despite the way the room had started to go slightly blotchy, pushed the hair tie up onto his wrist and headed for the door.

He buzzed Steve in, and then he waited the few minutes it’d take for Steve to reach his apartment.

Time moves slowly with anxiety, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow, sometimes both at once.

Bucky felt like he’d passed through the seven stages of grief by the time Steve’s head poked out of the top of the stairs and he rounded the last corner, but something like the warmth of sunshine through a window pane on a previously cloudy day erupted in his stomach, and he smiled despite himself. He flexed his fingers, hoping his palms weren’t too clammy and held the door open for Steve, who was juggling two Starbucks cups.

“Hey,” Steve smiled, buried within his man-devouring coat and scarf combo. “I didn’t know what type of coffee you’d like, so I panicked and went with pumpkin spice. And now I feel like an idiot.”

He held out the cup regardless, and Bucky took it, Steve’s glove grazing his hand as he did so.

“Pumpkin spice is always welcome in this household,” he said, and gestured for Steve to come in.

Steve toed off his shoes, and seemed to notice something.

“Huh, you weren’t kidding about the floorboards,” he pointed out.

“They’re beautiful, what’s to joke about?” Bucky asked, before shaking his head. “Sorry, I work in design, sort of, so I kind of have a thing for beautiful stuff.”

Steve wandered further into his apartment, and seemed to find each new thing he saw a delight. He let out a happy huff at the sight of Bucky’s plants hoarding the deep windowsill.

Bucky let himself take a sip of the coffee. It was still hot, but not too hot to burn.

“What sort of design do you do?” Steve asked. “Oh, is it okay if I sit?”

Bucky nodded, and Steve plopped down on the sofa, looking for all the world like he’d always been there. Bucky took the chair Nat normally claimed, and watched Steve as he took another sip before answering.

“I make website templates, you know, Wordpress, used to do tumblr but yeahhh, not so much now, got a couple on Squarespace, a few customisable headers on Etsy. It’s all pretty automated, so all I have to do is design a couple a week and troubleshoot if I have to. Pretty good life for a hermit.”

“That’s really cool,” Steve said. Bucky shrugged.

“Eh, I mean, it’s fine, but it’s not what I want to be doing,” he said.

Steve cocked his head, setting his drink down carefully on a coaster.

“What do you want to be doing?”

Bucky blushed. It always sounded so dumb when he said it out loud.

“I want to write a book. Like, not the next great American novel, but something people will care about.”

Steve hummed to himself for a second.

“So what’s stopping you?” He asked.

“My fucking brain, as far as I can tell. I have a million ideas, but – it’s like, it’s gotta be perfect or it doesn’t count. And I can’t start writing until I know it’s going to be perfect.”

“Which means you never start writing,” Steve finished for him.

“Exactly.”

“I know that feeling,” Steve said, and shuffled in his seat. “I think your sofa might be trying to eat me.”

“It does that. Tell you a secret, sometimes I sleep on it because it’s more comfortable than my own bed. Which works great, until I fall off in the middle of the night. Me and the coffee table have had many a fight.”

Talking to Steve was easy, the kind of easy Bucky wasn’t used to. It should raise his hackles, make him suspicious, because nothing like this ever came easy, but Steve – there was something about him. Without really realising he was doing it, Bucky scanned every inch of bare skin he could see, looking for that tell-tale golden mark. He found nothing, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

Steve slid round so he was sitting sideways on the sofa, before sinking down, stretching his body out like a cat.

“You don’t mind?” He asked.

“Feel free. Don’t go complaining to me when it swallows you whole though.”

*

Steve had never felt so at ease in his life. From his limited vantage point, he could watch Bucky without it looking like that was what he was doing, and Bucky was gorgeous to behold. His hands were wrapped around the Starbucks cup with a surety that suggested strength, and Steve wondered idly how it’d feel to have those same hands wrapped around his wrists, or those plump lips on his, moving down to nip at his throat.

Bucky kept glancing at him too, and the room seemed to be filled with a tension that seemed almost palpable. One of them had to move first, one of them had to break it, and whatever happened next – well.

Steve wasn’t thinking about soulmates, wasn’t thinking about anything other than the idea of touching Bucky and Bucky touching him back. But he barely knew him. He’d met him yesterday. He was kind, and open, and honest, and that terrified Steve a little. Because it was everything Steve had been looking for, and here it was, and here Bucky was, and Bucky looked at him now, almost like he was waiting, and set the cup down.

Steve righted himself, and stood. Bucky’s head jerked up to follow the movement, but Steve merely moved to stand between Bucky’s spread thighs. Bucky’s hands found Steve’s hips and manoeuvred him backwards, so they were standing, barely breathing, the air around them seeming to thin.

A thick curl of hair fell in front of Bucky’s left eye, and Steve automatically moved to push it back.

Two things happened very quickly.

Bucky moved into the touch, and Steve’s hand swept the hair back, just glancing Bucky’s forehead.

Steve pulled his hand back as though he’d been burned, staring wide eyed at the gold smudge on the edges of his fingers.

“Steve?” Bucky asked, before looking down at Steve’s hand. Steve took a step back, then another, bashing his shins against the coffee table and nearly tripping. Bucky caught him, but Steve wrenched himself free of his grasp.

“No. No, no, this isn’t fair!” Steve was breathing heavily, unable to focus on anything but his hand and the strands of gold in Bucky’s hair and the glance of it on his forehead.

“I don’t get it. You – you didn’t have that before. Did I – do I?” Bucky walked around the back of the chair to look into the large ornate hanging mirror. He ran his fingers through his hair, patting at the gold there, rubbing it between his finger and thumb like it would wipe away.

“You’re my soulmate,” Bucky said, in awe.

“No I’m not,” Steve said, trying to get his thoughts in order enough to figure out where he’d left his shoes. Damn his coat and everything, if he could just find his shoes.

“These are soulmarks,” Bucky said, closer to Steve now. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” Steve said, finding one shoe, and bending to pull it on.

“Why?” Bucky asked, sounding bewildered, and a little heartbroken.

“I don’t believe in soulmates. And even if I did, you wouldn’t be mine.”

“Right. Except. I don’t think you get to choose,” Bucky said. Steve’s comment had stung. He knew he was damaged goods, but still, to hear it from Steve, who was kind and funny and cute as all get out, that hurt.

“Look at you, Bucky, then look at me. How could we be soulmates? Plus, you’re right, you don’t get to choose, and I want to be able to choose.”

“Right, because you’re better than me. Okay.”

Bucky stepped back, watching Steve fumble with his laces, his hands shaking too much to tie them.

“No, Bucky, because you’re better than me. And because – free will, Bucky. I want to choose who I fall in love with.”

“You were going to kiss me,” Bucky pointed out. “Isn’t that choosing? Isn’t that freewill?”

Steve let out a frustrated whine, and abandoned his shoe, straightening up.

“I don’t know! I don’t know. All I know is that people who believe in soulmates get hurt. Because guess what? Somebody always gets left behind. And they never get over it. And maybe I don’t want that.”

“Who got left behind, Steve?” Bucky asked, stepping a little closer. Steve seemed to let him into his space, a little defeated.

“Nobody,” he sighed. “My mom. Fine. My mom. My dad died when I was a baby. And she never got over it. And she was a really great mom, but she never, she was never completely there, you know? It’s like half of her went with him. And I don’t think I could deal with that.”

“You’re scared,” Bucky realised.

“No shit,” Steve said.

“No, Steve, listen. I’m scared. I’m scared all the time. You don’t think I’m not scared now? I’m petrified. Because I’m standing in front of my soulmate and he doesn’t want me back.”

Steve’s lip trembled. He swallowed harshly.

“Buck – Bucky. It’s not that. It’s – self-preservation. I’m told I don’t have much of it, but in this case, it might be all I’ve got.”

“You don’t seem like the sort of person who gives up,” Bucky said, sliding his fingers gently against Steve’s, giving them the smallest of squeezes.

“I’m not,” Steve said firmly.

“This sounds like giving up. And I know a lot about that. It’s like what I said, about writing. About wanting it to be perfect. What if it’s not meant to be perfect? What if it’s just meant to be enough?”

Steve looked up at him, his eyes blue and clear.

“You don’t sound scared.”

“Feel my heartbeat,” Bucky said, moving Steve’s fingers over the pulse point on his wrist, knowing Steve would feel the blood beneath coursing wildly.

Steve smiled a little.

“You’re scared.”

Bucky smiled back.

“Because I might lose you and I only just found you.”

“But you don’t know me,” Steve said. His hand gripped Bucky’s wrist a little tighter.

“I want to though. As long as it takes. The second I saw you, I wanted to know you.”

“What if something happens?” Steve asked.

“You told me you wouldn’t let me fall. So don’t.”

“It’s not that easy,” Steve said, his other hand finding Bucky’s and holding it. The moment seemed fragile, like the universe itself could shatter.

“But maybe it’s worth it,” Bucky said. “Maybe it’s worth everything.”

“Maybe – maybe I could kiss you? Just to check?” Steve asked, looking up at Bucky through his eyelashes.

“You want to?” Bucky checked, already moving into Steve’s orbit, tilting his head down so they were sharing the same breaths.

“I want to. I choose this,” Steve whispered, his lips moving against Bucky’s as he spoke, before turning into a kiss, hard and scared and vulnerable and desperate. Bucky moved with it, tried to slow it, pulling Steve close, letting the kiss mellow and flow through them.

Steve pulled back, the tear tracks clear on his cheeks.

“I think I should check again. Just in case,” Steve said, and Bucky smiled, and Steve reeled him back in, this time, slower, intimate, and more than a slip of tongue.

“And again,” Steve whispered against Bucky’s lips, barely pulling away.

Bucky held him, and the moment held, and Steve tasted of cinnamon and the bitter tang of coffee. And when Steve rested his head against Bucky’s chest, his ear to Bucky’s heart, and they stood, just existing, two souls finding one another, Bucky stroked Steve’s hair, murmuring nonsense, the kind of stuff only a soulmate would understand.

Whatever magic bound them together had been woven, unbreakable, undeniable. And from that moment on, Steve would never let Bucky fall. And in return, Bucky would always be the first to protect his angel from harm. And maybe it wasn’t perfect – maybe it’d never be perfect. But dammit if it wasn’t worth everything to try.

*

**soulmatesofnewyork: **I approach a man who seems completely at ease with the world, leaning back on a park bench, a yellow Labrador draped across his feet. His hair is brown, long and intricately braided, and his features are strong, his eyes stormy grey. Perhaps his most striking feature is the smudge of gold that highlights the hair that falls across his left eye, and continues onto his forehead. As I get closer, I realise the Labrador is an emotional support animal, and the man’s fingers are tapping anxiously on the back of the bench. Nevertheless, he looks content as he talks to me. _“He always tells me it should grow out,” _he gestures to the gold in his hair, _“but it’s been three years and it’s still here. Drives him mad, the logic of it.” _Where is he now? _“Getting ice cream, he knows I struggle with queuing.” _How did you know he was the one? _“The first time I saw him, I’d just tripped on the sidewalk, and I looked up at him and thought I was seeing an angel.” _Do you still think he’s an angel? _The man laughs gently. “I wouldn’t say that. I’d call him the other half of myself.” _A blond man approaches, and as he hands over an ice cream to the man I’m interviewing, I spy the matching gold between the fingers of his right hand. _“I didn’t believe in soulmates.” _He says. And now? _“I believe in Bucky. I believe in us. That’s enough for me.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I am so proud of this fic I cannot begin to tell you! I really hope you enjoyed it, it's been a labour of love through the last few days and I've really enjoyed writing it. I wanted to do something I hadn't seen in soulmate fics before (my apologies if this /has/ been done before, I haven't yet read every fic on this site, though not for lack of trying!). I also wanted to explore the freewill aspect of soulmates, however briefly. 
> 
> The first scene I had in my head was of Steve brushing Bucky's hair away and leaving a golden mark. From there, I knew I had to write this.
> 
> Natasha got her mark after Clint drank a vodka shot out of her navel. His tongue is golden. He gets a lot of fun questions about it.
> 
> I have generalised anxiety disorder and depression, so Steve and Bucky's experiences are based on my own.
> 
> Sorry for my rather extended leave of absence - I wrote a memoir and it got published and life got kind of insane after that. It's called How To Be Autistic, and I'm pretty sure it's the only memoir written this year that argues in favour of Steve and Bucky's enduring love for one another.
> 
> My tumblr can be found at jbbarnes.tumblr.com - it's a mess, but so am I, so it works. I post about Bucky Barnes and Good Omens, though never at the same time.
> 
> Comments are amazing and I will try to reply to them all. 
> 
> I really, really hope you liked this, and to Julie, this is first and foremost for you.


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